Gone was the somewhat gentle lover who’d taken her virginity, and, in his place, the Duke of Roxboro had taken up residence. Every ounce of ducal arrogance that had been bred into Alexander, no longer hidden beneath endless frivolity and brandy, had risen to the surface. The careless charm was still there, the overt sensuality, but he was now…commanding in a way he hadn’t been before.
Rather thrilling, all things considered.
When he’d returned later that night, after leaving her on the terrace, worrying Sophia and Barstow half to death because he’d been gone the entire day, she’d been sure she’d find him with a bottle of brandy in his hand. Instead, he’d been furious to find Sophia sleeping in her room. Snarling, he’d picked her up while she protested, andcarried her to his bed.
We do not sleep apart. Is that understood, Your Grace?
And Sophia, being well…Sophia, had snapped at him for waking her up, declaring that duke or not, she would sleep where she wished.
A miscalculation.
Roxboro did not agree. He made his feelings on the matter known that night, as well as the following morning. Last night, he’d tied her up with his cravat, taking her so savagely that Sophia was having trouble sitting this morning. All of which was terribly exciting and left her feeling like one of the heroines in the romance novels she so adored, though admittedly, it was becoming increasingly difficult to meet the eyes of the household staff. Sophia’s voice…carried.
Mama had been incorrect. The marital bed, at least if it contained the Duke of Roxboro, was no duty.
Most importantly, Roxboro hadn’t touched a drop of brandy, scotch, or anything else.
“Freeman made his train?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Barstow replied.
Mr. Freeman, the duke’s secretary, had appeared at The Pillory the day after Roxboro received that terrible, awful letter from Oakhurst. Her husband stayed closeted with Freeman for nearly two days in his study, barely speaking to Sophia unless they were in bed. Roxboro spent the entire time with a pen stuck behind one ear, as he marched about with a stack of ledgers in his arms.
Freeman, poor man, scurried about, uncertain how to proceed with this different Roxboro. He’d been sent back to London just after breakfast.
“You will heedme, Freeman,” Sophia had heard Roxboro say, as the secretary climbed into the carriage waiting to take him to the train station. “Or you will find other employment. Your salary is contingent upon my largesse, not Lord Damon’s. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Freeman’s throat had bobbed about before he departed.
“Lord Damon is bound to be…unsettled by…certain changes,” she said, taking a bite of roasted chicken. Roxboro’s uncle was not going to be pleased to see that she and the duke had come to terms with their marriage, but in a way he wouldn’t have considered.
Roxboro drew one finger along the edge of his goblet, one filled with well-watered wine, which was all he allowed himself. Given his dislike of wine, he only took a few tiny sips, mostly for appearances sake.
Everyone will still assume I’m a sot. Let them. It is an advantage.
“My uncle has much to answer for,” Roxboro said from his side of the table. “He was aware of Oakhurst’s deception, yet he never informed me.” Anger laced his words.
That much had been confirmed by Freeman. The bank drafts, dozens of them, that Roxboro couldn’t recall signing. Markers with his signature. A house in a corner of Mayfair, with Roxboro’s name affixed to the lease. Sophia did not blame her husband for being furious.
“Yes,” Roxboro continued, watching her. “Damon put an end to it, but I deserved to know. Instead, he allowed me to go stumbling about like the drunken village idiot.”
The betrayal of Oakhurst had wounded her husband deeply. But there was also immense guilt over the way he’d abused his father’s legacy and that of every Duke of Roxboro who’d gone before him. He was fumed, quietly, at what he saw as his uncle’s coddling. Lord Damon had treated Roxboro like a child. Encouraging his excesses. Handling Roxboro’s affairs. He was convinced that had his uncle not been so accommodating, he would have seen through Oakhurst’s scheme.
“I do not think that was Damon’s intent,” she voiced quietly, though Sophia didn’t know. She didn’t care for Damon Viceroy, but she refused to allow her opinion to color Roxboro’s feelings towards his uncle. “I am firmly on your side, Your Grace.”
“I know, you tedious chit.” Roxboro stood, tripped over the leg ofthe table, cursed, and made his way over to her. “I’ve two left feet. Or perhaps,” he nuzzled along her neck. “It is only that I am so well endowed, my balance is off.”
“An understatement,” Sophia replied.
“Naughty.” His teeth nibbled at the lobe of her ear. “Terrible.” His tongue teased along the edge. “Thing.” A kiss was pressed to her neck. “I adore you. Come, be terrible with me.”
“Your uncle—” she giggled, leaning into him.
“Has arrived,” came the coldly patrician tone of Lord Damon Viceroy from the doorway.
And he didn’t look pleased at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
